Dancing On My Own

Chapter 6: Pride & Vulnerability!

The office was dark except for the glow of Ismene’s desk lamp. It was nearly midnight, the city outside hushed under the weight of rain. She should have gone home hours ago, but home was unbearable now—too many shadows, too many memories pressed into the walls.

Instead, she sat surrounded by case files and silence, her mind looping the same question: Am I strong enough to do this alone?

Her pride answered instantly. Of course. She had faced down judges who despised her, juries stacked against her, prosecutors with endless resources. She had carved victories out of impossible odds. She was Ismene Sankare—discipline made flesh.

But her vulnerability whispered louder tonight. This wasn’t a client’s case. This was her life, her marriage, her reputation on trial. And anger—her constant companion since the photograph—was beginning to blur the edges of her strategy.

She pressed her palms against her temples. Amina’s words returned, unwelcome but true: You’ll bleed, and the court will smell it.

Ismene hated the idea of weakness. To her, vulnerability was a door left ajar, an invitation for enemies to slip through. She had built her career on iron walls, on never letting emotion spill into the courtroom. Yet now, she was drowning in it.

Her phone buzzed with a new email. She opened it without thinking—and froze.

It was from Jared.

We need to talk. Not as enemies. Just as two people who once loved each other.

She read it twice, three times. Her chest tightened, a strange ache rising where anger had settled. For a moment, she saw Jared from six years ago—the man who braved a Minnesota blizzard just to meet her for coffee, the man who toasted to forever on their wedding night.

But the memory curdled as quickly as it formed. That Jared was gone. In his place stood the one who had lied, betrayed, humiliated her.

She deleted the email without replying.

Her decision was made, even if her heart resisted admitting it: she would fight. Alone. Her pride demanded it, and her pride had always been the truest part of her armor.

Still, as she turned off the lamp and gathered her things, she couldn’t escape the nagging thought—was this pride, or fear?